Non-offensive nostrils.

Self portrait:  breathing in unpleasant truths is not injurious to my health

Selfie, unplugged.

Me, 2012 I think.

Not so depressed doodle.

Not depressed on my part, that is. Although the lady in the picture
doesn't look very pleased with herself, in spite of owning
that magnificent bosom.

Healing through art.

Drawing and writing are two of the most important things in
my life (refer first and third words of blog title). Well, they're
supposed to be. Writing is hard:  not the words or grammar or
even the typing - no, it's hard because it's painful and scary
to let my words out for anyone to see. Because what they see
is what's inside me.

Writing is perhaps the scariest thing I do. Drawing, on the other
hand, is easy. Just sit down and scribble. Perhaps people see
what's inside of me through my doodles and sketches, I don't
know .. but also, I don't care. I can hide things in pictures, that
in words just leap out. Sometimes I think it's easier because
the person I'm hiding them from is me.

These two most important things .. how is it that I put them
at the bottom of my list? There is ALWAYS something else
that seems to matter more. I suppose my problem is that the things
that matter to me never seem to be as important as the things
that matter to everyone else.

So naturally, here I am with stress-induced uveitic relapses
(sounds impressive but what it really means is an eye infection
that keeps coming back because I don't take care of myself), and
it's only when my niece points out that drawing might be
therapeutic and stress-relieving do I give it further thought.

Tonight I decided, no more delays, no more excuses, and I took out
a sketch pad and a bunch of pencils. I didn't know what I was
going to draw, but I kept telling myself that whatever it was,
it would be healing. The TV was on in the background - Criminal
Minds, an episode about a child molester. I'm not a person who
allows myself to feel the rage and outrage of my childhood very
often, and as I drew, the lines got darker, the marks got deeper,
and it struck me that art IS healing. But maybe only because
I can't bring myself to use my pencils in any other way.

Sometimes art heals in weird and wonderful ways.

After I lost my darling bird Gobi, it was suggested that I turn
to art or writing - about her - to "sublimate" my grief. But I couldn't.
I'm not ready to face my loss so directly, just yet. So I picked up
a book of movie star photos, and decided to try my hand at
copying that classic Audrey Hepburn picture, the one with
the loooong cigarette holder.

Somehow, I ended up with what you see here. Fortunately
for Ms Hepburn, it looks nothing like her.

I'm not healed. Grief takes its own time. But I can't help smiling
when I look at this ridiculous portrait, and for now, that'll do.

A second postcard

Finally. Postcard #2 is done and ready to be mailed. What I'm enjoying
most about this project is finding three unrelated people - the person
in the picture, the person whose words I've quoted, and the person
who receives the postcard - and creating a connection between them.

From my sketchbook

Haven't been in the mood to write, but here's something I drew
this weekend, off a photograph of my cousin's daughter. I like
the way I got her expression: dreamy, shy, and pleased all at
the same time (I think it was a picture of her on her honeymoon).
I haven't succeeded in making her look as classically beautiful
as she is in real life.

Red, revisited.

I recently discovered oil pastels. Basically, these are posh,
lubricated crayons that one can have hours of smudgy fun with.
And much fun have I had, largely on one wall of my home that
I allow myself to scribble on. Of late, though, I've been trying
it out on paper, and here's something I did this evening.













Recognise her? It's Red Riding Hood. She's grown up now,
and has made her way out:  unafraid of the forest behind her,
and unintimidated by the demons ahead that may try to whisper
fear and doubt back into her heart.